Rat Traps
by Cherry Champagne
Summary: When the old ball-and-chain's fastened around your neck. Or at least you think it is. Craig's POV. Mature means sex.
1. First Chapter

Warninz: Poorly written, graphic sexy scene to follow. Hide the children!

--

**foreshadowing**

It started when Craig lost the remote.

--

**exposition**

There were four gay kids in South Park; two sets. God's gift that it should be an even number, and so well matched. The first was the display model, token diversity widely accepted, the pride of South Park's modern sensibility. Little touches were put forward to assure their comfort. It was understandable why they were the favorite; Butters, with his baby face and his sweet naivety, was a perfect stereotype of the girl in a same-sex relationship. Kenny, having come forth from the ocean of sour beer and blood, with his torn jeans, callous apathy, and crooked grin, struck the image of the love interest in a predictable romance movie from the 80's. The sexy bad ass. Perfect man.

Craig and Tweek never protested being grudgingly accepted as a surplus.

It was sort of an inside joke without the joke that girls—and sometimes boys—back in the high school chose and discussed favorites. So far, Craig and Tweek only had Lizzie—and, of course, Token and Clyde, however, they didn't count so much as fan club members as friends.

Kenny and Butters had held the monopoly on PDA. While the sight of the two mashed together in some shadowy hallway between classes, Butters' wrists shackled to the smooth walls with Kenny's possessive, angry bedroom behavior, the flashes of tongue and twisting jaw lines, rarely gained more than a genial smirk, Craig and Tweek barely dared to give brief parting hugs in public. Without saying a word, the majority of the South Park population had drawn the line—just because it's okay for them doesn't mean it's okay for you. You're not cute enough.

It wasn't a rivalry. Craig and Kenny were fairly good friends, Kenny was always exceedingly friendly with Tweek, and Butters extended a cheerful politeness to the two—Craig, of course, didn't quite have the patience to interact extensively with "the poofball", and Tweek didn't so much have a social anxiety disorder as mania, which inhibited his making friends fairly effectively. It didn't matter—the opinions, and slight contempt, never dinged the impenetrable armor of one another. They lived blind for everything but each other.

--

**rising action**

Craig made a habit of checking the weather report every morning. Not just for the sake of routine—work wasn't all that far away, and considering the gas mileage of the old truck he'd bought off his uncle at seventeen, if the weather wasn't too threatening, he usually just walked.

This particular morning, the remote had gotten itself wedged in some place, or slipped its way under something—the fact of the matter was, finding it would be more effort then plucking it up off the coffee table, jamming the power button, and throwing it onto the couch while brushing his teeth with the other hand. In a fit of early-morning apathy, Craig stood in the living room of the tiny apartment, toothpaste foam spotting the corners of his mouth, until his meditation on the hopelessness of the situation was broken.

"CRAIG, HAVE YOU SEEN MY PILLS? ERGH!"

He removed the brush from his mouth for further ease of speaking. "Did you check under the mattress?" Tweek had a habit of hiding his collection of little orange prescription bottles, and then changing this hiding places—from who he was hiding them, neither knew. A third of the time, they were under the mattress—a clear outlier.

"Yeah! I checked, like, three times!"

Craig forwent watching the weather channel to go help his boyfriend find his medication—something he would've let solve itself, had it not been for the minute effort it would've taken to search through the cushions.

--

By the end of Craig's nine hour shift, the snow was a foot and a half deep, creating a thick, opaque veil that extended from the solid drift that hit the horizon to the white sky. It was already freezing, crusting over—walking home would not only take upwards of an hour, with the shuffling speed he'd have to go, but would be exceedingly wet and cold—in the negative teens, with wind chill—and would most likely end in him being run down by a sliding car.

Tweek never ended up learning to drive—not that he would send him out in this weather. He used the store phone to dial Kenny's number.

After fifteen minutes of sitting on the counter, listening to Lizzie rant on the subject of the lack of tip jars in electronic stores ("Seriously! Like carrying plates is so fucking difficult we must worship our providers with offerings of spare change? How 'bout the people who spend the better part of an afternoon trying to explain to your butt-fucking Grammy the difference between a scanner and a fax!? Don't we deserve a couple quarters for our service?") a soggy Kenny stumbled through the glass door, smacking the bell hard enough to render its melodic chime into a twangy click, and tracking copious amounts of snow to the rough, blue carpet.

"Holy fucking shit it's the next Ice Age. It's here, you guys!" He offered this statement with a serious, wily eye, sending Lizzie into a fit of giggles. "Get in the car before a pack of caribou hotwire it. God _damn_." Kenny was another employee of the small branch of a large chain—the three of them and the manager compromised its entire catalogue of workers.

Out in the car, the windows were fogged, rendering the cabin of the elderly compact into its own private space, cut off from the world. Craig flicked the windshield wipers as Kenny rounded the nose, tripping slightly as his foot hit the cinderblock space marker buried beneath the snow.

The car groaned as Kenny steered it toward the exit—it was practically digging its way through, creating paths where the tires shoved their way past the false ground. The highway was better—the assault nature had cast on them had been liquefied by technology, coating the dark asphalt with a slick, grey slush. The main issue then was the traffic, which was going a top speed of ten miles per hour.

"Probably an accident or something." Craig sighed, eying the long line of cars that preceded them on the strip of road. It might've been faster to walk—faster, but the other effects of the snow made the wait worth it. "Hey, thanks for picking me up, man."

"No prob. Butters is staying with Bebe for the weekend, I'm bored as all shit." There was a brief beat, in which the soft sounds of the radio hit a climax—lots of guitar, lots of drum, lots of emotion. "Hey, y'wanna come chill for a while? I've got tequila—I don't mind sharing, makes me feel less pathetic."

Craig considered it before retorting, "Yeah, but if I stay, it'll be dark by the time I get home—I don't wanna drive in this in the dark."

"Stay the night." Kenny shrugged—a sincere suggestion.

"I dunno if Tweek'd be cool with that."

"Call and ask! C'mon, man, it's way too quiet there. Don't make me get all drunk and quixotic alone. I promise not to lament the weekend loss of my fair love. Loudly."

Craig didn't know what quixotic meant. To be perfectly honest with himself, a night of boozing and TV sounded good. Some sort of unspecific guilt, jealousy from the opposite perspective, kept him from saying yes right off. He had responsibilities. What these responsibilities were, he couldn't say.

"Okay, whatever. If he wants me home, will you drive me?"

"Fuck that. You walk, Mister Whipped."

--

He kicked off his shoes in the doorway, worked his coat off of his arms as he walked toward the phone, and threw it on the kitchen floor as he picked up the receiver. He craved permission. Kenny followed him listlessly as the phone rang, plopped down on the bar stool, and leaned his chin on his palms. Four rings before it picked up.

"Hello!?"

"Tweekers?"

"Craig! Jesus Christ, it's a mess out—where are you? Did you crash? Oh God, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, calm down spazz—look, the road are really awful. Kenny gave me a ride home, is it okay if I just crash here tonight?"

The other line was silent for a moment. "Yeah, yeah, that's alright…"

"You sure? You'll be okay on your own?" They hadn't spent a night apart since the week before graduation, when they'd first tangled on the bare bedroom floor with nothing covering them but a sheet, surrounded by the towering stratums of cardboard boxes. That had been a good night. The sex had felt like freedom, in a cheesy way.

"I'll be okay. Errm—um, what time d'you think you'll be home tomorrow?"

"Uh, I'll call as soon as I wake up, okay? I promise not to get in any cars without your permission." Craig had learned—it was the not knowing that drove Tweek up the wall and into the pill bottle. He hated surprises.

"Okay. Um.…"

"I love you."

"Love you too!"

"Nighty-night."

"Night. Be careful."

Neither one heard the sound of the other disconnecting. A perfectly symbiotic farewell.

Craig turned to his host, washed free of the sin of guilt by the simpering voice of his One True Love. "You mentioned booze?"

--

Kenny took another shot of Jose Quervo, barely blinking as he set the plastic shot glass down on the coffee table and reached casually for the shared bottle of grape soda.

"We're in the same position, you know. We relate."

Craig wasn't quite sure what he was talking about, but had the impression he should. He nodded.

"Yeah, you get me." The TV tittered, forgotten in the heat of the conversation—produced by Kenny, directed by Kenny, starring Kenny. "It's hard. A lot. I mean, it's like, you give it your all, and you know it's what you want, but then there's that—that part of you that says, 'don't settle for this! You can have it all!' And I dunno."

Craig still didn't know what Kenny was talking about.

"I love Butters. I mean, I _love_ Butters. You know in, um, in 1984, at the end, the thing with the rats?" Craig had never read 1984. He nodded anyway. "Yeah—I would've let them rip my face off. And crap in my brain. I don't care. I love that stupid little bastard. Yeah?" He could pick up on Kenny asking him whether or not he'd let rats eat his face off for Tweek—this time, his nod was honest.

"But…this isn't me. I don't…settle. I mean, I love the idea of getting married, or whatever gay guys do, and having a little pack of sticky butt babies destroy my house and eat up my income, but the entire time I'd be thinking of all the people I could be fucking. The things I could be doing—I miss drugs, Craig, Butters doesn't like them, and so I gave them up, just like that, but if someone were to walk up to me right now and offer me some E, I'd shove it right down my throat and not even ask questions. I miss casual sex. I miss vaginas, and being on bottom—Butters ain't so good at top. I miss feeling _dirty_. I miss being Kenny. Butters-n-Kenny, it's nice, it's comfy, but I miss being _Kenny_."

Craig tried to fit this piece into the drunk puzzle of his mind. Did he relate? Did he ever miss the time before, back then, when he'd done what he wanted, whenever, without worrying? When he fucked whatever would stand still long enough?

The more he thought about it, the more he eased into it. He was trapped, wasn't he? Love, that was just bait—and here he was, love-cheese in his jaws, the trap snapped close. Le petite mort, snapped neck, dead rat.

"And it's like, you just need a little, controlled rebellion—just a little one, no one has to know, no emotion—physical, not emotional. Naw, I could never emotionally betray Butters, but damn, my cock is so much louder than my brain."

Craig gesticulated forward, eyes wide. "Exactly! It's not like you want to leave 'im, you just want…you just want it your way every once in a while!"

"Yeah!"

"Hell, it could be good for us—you—I dunno, just let all that shit out in one burst, and then you're all wound down and happy for a long time. Rather than letting it built up and pop."

"This is awesome. You get it! I thought I was wrong, but you get it!"

"I do!"

They thrust forward at the same time, knocking noses.

--

**flashback**

_"BRAKE, TWEEK—BIG PEDDLE, BIG PEDDLE."_

_Tweek cried out, and in a moment of panic, pulled both feet away from the cavern beneath his seat, abandoning the wheel to clamp his fists over his eyes in his panic. Craig swore loudly, dove forward, 'til his forehead hit the radio, and smacked the brake with his open palm. Whichever one of Newton's laws shoved the radio button into Craig's temple could go fuck itself._

_"This isn't working." Craig breathed, pulling himself back into his own seat._

_It was early in their Junior year. Craig had refused Tweek's protests that driving was far too much pressure and insisted he tutor him in the invaluable skill. He'd bended to Tweek's demands—back roads, early morning, and should any other car come along, he reserved the right to get the fuck out of the way._

_Craig had, so far, retained his patience spectacularly well. This was the key factor in why he'd been so insistent upon being the one who helped him through—it was either him, or Tweek be a lifelong passenger. No one else had the Tweek-managing skills he did. No one else had as much of his trust as he did._

_Beneath the solid block of testosterone he tried to flaunt himself as, the fact that he'd earned even a chip of the paranoid little freak's trust lit a warm glow behind his ribs. Nine years—it had taken him nine years to get this far. Tweek didn't give out trust like Halloween candy. It was more like stealing a brick from the wall on Fort Knox._

_"Does that mean we can give up?" Tweek whimpered, melting slightly in his seat. It was too big for him; like seeing a younger sibling driving. No matter how old Tweek got, he would be too little. Probably something about the eyes. They were huge—more because he opened them as wide as possible in attempt to gain as much peripheral vision as he could than because of the actual structure of his face, but there was still something gooey and sweet about those yellowy-green eyes, something that made Craig group him in with his little sister (who couldn't have been more different, but evoked partway similar emotions—but with Tweek, there was…something extra.)_

_"No. Either you learn to drive, or we both die trying." The look of sheer misery he received told him Tweek didn't see either one of the answers as all that better than the other. "I have an idea—tell me if this is weird, I don't know, I don't think it's weird…" Tweek knew Craig was_ _Like That before anyone else. "We both sit in the driver seat, you get on my lap, and that way if you freak out like that again I can take over. No pressure!"_

_Tweek's face brightened only slightly, bringing it up from miserable to simply piteous. _

_"I'm not letting you leave until seven—you promised me, 'til seven, and we can either spend that time on the verge of death or we could at least be safe."_

_The resolve broke on Tweek's face. In a motion of solid defeat, he sighed, hung his head, unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out of the car._

_Craig hopped out cheerfully, took the walk around the front, and climbed in. This was more comfortable—he didn't like seeing through his windshield from the passenger's angle. Too helpless._

_Tentatively, Tweek squeezed in. The combined girth of their things pressed slightly against the bottom of the wheel—they both spread their legs, which solved the problem for the most part. _

_More urgently, Craig could feel every curve of Tweek's ass pressing into his groin._

Tweek's like your little brother.

My little brother sure is soft and warm.

Urgh!

"_Okay, put it in R…"_

_Tweek's hand shook as it hesitantly reached for the knob that had previously separated them. After a almost undetectable beat, his skin hovering centimeters above the smooth surface, he clamped down—all fingers firmly wrapping the rounded surface. He tugged it back, hitting it into the Reverse slot._

Dead puppies dead puppies dead puppies grandma grandma PERU naked Cartman…all jiggly and stuff…

_The car inched back away from the guard rail they'd stopped a few feet from a moment before. Tweek's foot rested in the air over the gas peddle, like it was the trigger of a loaded gun._

"_Okay, that's far enough—now Drive…"_

_The car hummed forward. Painfully slowly, Tweek eased the wheel to the left—they easily could've outwalked the speed the car was moving._

"_Okay, use a little gas…"_

"_Urrgh—uh—what?"_

"_Gas—little peddle—c'mon, it's okay, just a little bit…"_

_Tweek bit his lip, looking about as stressed as Craig had ever seen him—stressed, not panicked, it would be hard to beat that record. His bare foot made gentle contact with the smaller peddle, his toes flexed, and the engine gave a soft hum as they moved forward._

_The street they had curved onto cleaved the cemetery in two. Craig easily read headstones as they crawled. Husbands and wives._

Rotting corpses.

_Tweek sighed loudly—surprising Craig out of his counter-meditative efforts. More smoothly than he would've guessed Tweek could, he eased the car over to the side of the road._

"_Craig...um…agh, I'm sorry, but you, uh…is…is that me—" his voice broke. He clutched the wheel, white knuckled, his forehead shoved forward, his breath shoving its way in and out of his mouth. "That's not me that's doing that, is it?"_

_Craig's face caught fire so fast it stung. "Oh—shit—I'm sorry, Tweek, I'm so fucking sorry—it's—it—"_

_"It's okay!" He almost screamed the two words, breaking the early morning silence. "It's alright! I mean, if it is or it isn't, I just want to—ergh—is it? Not that it really matters—I—"_

_What the…_

_Really?_

_"Uh…yeah." Let's see what happens. "It's you. S-sorry." He gave a breathy chuckle, not smiling._

_"Oh…um…" Tweek's hands began to massage the wheel rhythmically. "Sorry, sorry, this is probably really weird…not—not, y'know, really serious, but…uh…I guess…how does it…does it feel good? Doing it like that…" He was really shaking—vibrating, really, which wasn't helping the situation—or hurting?_

_"Um…I guess I like it…"_

_"I'm just kinda wondering…"_

_"You…wanna try?"_

_Tweek gave a little barking noise, throwing his head forward—it hit the hard wheel with a sticky smack._

_"If you want to…I mean, if you're really curious, I don't mind."_

_The mass of blonde hair before him shook for a while, silent, possibly seizing, before a nearly inaudible squeak came out of him—a yes._

_They both sat, awkward, for nearly five seconds—an eternity in the confines of the car._

_"We should get in back—there's not a lot of room up here."_

_Tweek lifted his head, moving at sonic speed without progressing more than an inch in any direction. "Yes! Okay! I'll get out!" He attacked the door handle—throwing his entire body into it—and, obviously, ended up on his side on the road._

_Craig stared down, amused._

_"I'm okay! Okay! The back—" Tweek scrambled to his feet, to the back door of the car, and inside. His head poked between the two front seats, looking grim and eager, waiting to be joined._

This is probably a dream,_ Craig's mind insisted. _A wet dream. It's way too easy.

Shut up, mind.

--

**climax**

Kenny's tongue feels way too big to be human—too many muscles, too smooth, too thorough. The feeling of it trailing across his naval, his nose briefly probing into the dip of his belly button as he nuzzled into the pubes marking the slope of his groin into his cock, made him uncomfortably horny.

_Just fucking do it—whatever you're going to do, I can't fucking stand this…_

And then he did—in one solid motion, his chin bucking up then back down, he took Craig's member as far as he could into his mouth, his soft tonsils pressing, wet and warm, against the head, a drizzle of pre-cum sliding down the back of his throat.

It was so much better than Tweek, so, so, so much better—

Craig's fingers never felt so individual—ten, ten tiny pads, ten points of contact with Kenny's hot, tight skin, his firm back, a knotted scar, the cleft of his ass—

"S—slow down, I'm gonna—" He could barely breathe.

Kenny's hands squeezed into Craig's thighs, giving him permission.

His head—god, every joint in his body had some special talent—turned slightly to the side as Craig let his load into his mouth. Would Tweek let him do this? Could Tweek ever learn to make him cum so hard and fast?

He was cheating—physically and emotionally.

How did Butters ever leave the house?

Kenny licked a smudge of white from the corner of his mouth, way too cute, and started working his way back onto the couch, while pulling down his pants—how can he even do that without looking?

Their mouths met, wide open, fish mouths, transferring the salty taste between them, and suddenly Craig's pants were down around his knees, and Kenny was concentrating hard, staring down between their tangled legs to his goal.

He grabbed the clear bottle from the coffee table, titled it back into his mouth, and shoved the narrow neck between Craig's lips—a stinging slosh flooded his mouth, down his throat, making him cough. Kenny laughed at his reaction and set the bottle back down haphazardly.

Three fingers probed shallowly into his entrance—then the head. He only managed to touch before Craig grabbed a hold of his shoulder, grabbing his attention.

"Dude, dude, dude—lube."

"Huh?"

"Lube! You can't just ram that thing—"

"Oh…heh, uh, I guess Butters is a bit more…worn in than you…." The momentum was broken as he lifted away slightly, pulling his fingers free. "Wait, wait—" He came almost all the way apart from Craig, his torso twisting uncomfortably as he reached around to the drawer behind them, beside the arm of the couch.

He pulled completely free to turn toward it, digging through debris in the top drawer with both hands.

"Here." He held a palm-sized squeeze tube of lotion. "This okay?"

"Yeah." _Whatever—get back over here, you can't get me all hot and leave me cold so suddenly. _

"Okay, now shut up."

---

**falling action**

Craig can smell the inside of their house—it smells like coffee and dirty laundry and Lysol. He hadn't been gone all that long—less than a day—why is it so unfamiliar?

He barely has his shoes off (puts them on the doormat; they're wet,) before Tweek shuffles down the short hall from the bedroom, wearing a baggy white T-shirt, boxers, and socks, looking sickly.

"Hey sleepyhead. Did I wake you up?" Craig asks as he pulls off his jacket.

"You said you would call before you came home."

"I thought you'd be asleep, I didn't wanna wake you up. Were you asleep?"

He yawned as he shook his head; "I was trying to. Will you come lay with me?" His bottom lip slips out from beneath his top, showing the red wetness of the inside of his mouth.

"Sure." He was actually pretty tired himself; it was only around six, and he hadn't slept a lot the night before. Plus his ass was a little sore.

"Um--rgh…can we make pancakes really quick? I think it'll help me sleep." "Make pancakes" was the code word, referring to the third time they'd done so, after a night of doing so. That was a good night too—Tweek had tried to make pancakes, wearing some dumb apron. They nearly burned down the house.

Craig sighed. They walked, hip to hip, down the narrow hall, back to the tussled bed. "I'm kinda tired. If I meet you half-way, will that be enough?"

Tweek smiles, showing a tiny rind of teeth, as he climbs over the comforter, trying to straighten it out. "Thank you."

"No prob." Craig climbed in over him, on his knees, and lowered his head to do his duty as significant other.

**end of part one.**


	2. Last Chapter

**suspicion**

Craig's arm shot out from the warm cocoon of comforter to snap off the alarm. He threw off the blanket, doubling up the cover on the flattened lump beside him, and stretched his arms out, crucifixion-style. Tweek kicked like a rabbit to rid himself of the hot blanket, sending it over the foot of the mattress and to the floor.

"Tweek, go turn on the fan."

"You!"

"I think I'm sick."

"Aw Jesus—you probably caught it from me, I've been feeling sick the past few days—"

"Oh, me too. One of us caught it from the other. Shit, who will fetch us Seven Up—" his trachea suddenly exploded into his mouth. He coughed roughly, scraping the back of his throat somehow in the process. "Fucking shit!"

Tweek groaned, arched his back, and sea-sawed his way under Craig's arm.

"You're hot."

"Too bad."

Craig accepted his cuddly fate rather cheerfully. "I'm taking off. I feel like six sick sacks of shit." He cocked his head curiously at his own statement.

"Me too?"

"Yeah."

Tweek sighed. "We should just open a window."

"You."

"No."

"Let's make Clyde come over and do it."

"Yeah—arrgh—call your manager, I'll call my dad when you're done."

"You're shaking really bad."

"I'm sick!"

Craig bit his lip, brought the hand not pinned under Tweek's head to his mouth to cough, and reached over to the night table toward the phone.

--

Things had been going especially well since That Night—a few months ago. Out of guilt, Craig had been extending an extra effort to be sweet to Tweek—he hadn't hit him once, and had been submitting highly expressive little bursts of affection. Sort of a honeymoon phase. Tweek had most likely noticed the slight upward shift into some semblance of love song sugaryness, but probably not enough to actually question it; all the better. Craig's guilt had leaked free, leaving him to believe the mistake had actually been a good one—the fruits it bore were certainly nice. The high was starting to ebb—the little frustrations he had considered normal before, however, were gone.

Around ten, Tweek rolled free, leaving the areas where there skin had kept contact cold and wet and clammy, claiming the caffeine headache was worse than the effects of whatever it was they had. Craig was relieved; he hadn't wanted to get up, but was pretty sure that if the two of them, fevery as they were, had lain together much longer, the bed would have burst into flames. While he was already up, he brought Craig a box of Ritz and a huge plastic cup full of ice water, then retreated to the couch. The consolation prize of the TV was worth losing the bed.

Craig tried to munch a few of the crackers, but wished he had a trash can to spit them out in the moment he did. They tasted decent; the idea of eating was the gross part. He chugged water 'til it started to come up a little, then tried to sleep again.

At noon, he called the doctor and made appointments for the both of them.

Twelve thirty, he started to get lonely, and hauled his self out of bed to shuffle down the hall toward where his soul mate lay, scratching his ass in a most charming manner.

He made a nest of pillows on the floor, insulated away from the other heat source by three feet of tepid air, and extended a sweaty hand to hold onto the bare foot hanging a few inches beneath the surface of the cushions. He could sacrifice a hand.

--

**technical stuff**

"Baby is this—love for real," Craig mumbled to the impersonal room. The doctor had poked and peeked into all of his facial orifices, asked a lot of questions about his bodily functions, and put her dry hand up his shirt a whole lot. Now was the waiting. It seemed to be taking longer than usual. "Let me in your arms, to fee-ee-ul,"

Finally, the door swung open, and the doctor walked in, looking formally cheerful.

"Okay, Craig, it looks like you probably just have a case of pneumonia, but just to be sure, we're gonna get some x-rays, if that's alright." She stood with her feet together, showing too many perfect teeth.

X-rays? For pneumonia? Craig wasn't a doctor, or enough of a douche to question one out loud, but he knew something was weird about that. He nodded and followed her out of the room, regardless.

"Is Tweek getting one too?"

"Um, well, considering he probably has the same thing as you, we'll probably just start with you and then see from there."

He gnawed his lip.

--

They x-rayed his chest a few times (weird,) and made him go back to his waiting room for a another half hour (Tweek was probably bored out of his skull—and in need of caffeine.)

When she finally returned, she was joined by another doctor—a guy. The cheerfulness was gone, leaving just the formality. Okay.

"Um, Craig, it looks like you might have a sort of rare kind of pneumonia—" she handed him the x-ray, which he could make no sense of beside a few wispy ribs and a lot of white. "—it's called PCP, and…well, it's not really common in healthy adults. So we're gonna take some blood, alright?"

They kept asking his permission. He stuck out his arm, let the guy pop in the needle and steal some of his cells, and prepared for more waiting as they both left.

--

When they finally came back, a severely twitchy Tweek was at their heels. His eyes were winking and twitching as if he had just spent a very long time in a very dark place and was now coming into blinding sun—the usual behavior of a very nervous Tweek, probably not helped by his already being sick.

She was quiet, standing in front of them, staring at a clip board. "Um…" What the hell? "It…we haven't done any secondary tests yet, so this isn't 100%, but…it…sort of looks like you both have a very early case of HIV."

**breakdown**

_Wow, had that Nothing always been just one step behind him? Did the no-dimensional no-think world follow him like a shadow, always just a step behind? It was suddenly so accessible, so open and welcoming and blank._

_He only floated for a second before the noise reached him—dammit, how did it even travel in his airless space? It hit just the right pitch—the Tweek pitch, made by his voice and at his tone._

_He wavered between the nothing and Tweek, conflicted and tired, before the feeling of duty sunk in. Annoyed, he let everything come back, coming into light like turning on a TV._

Oh shit, what just happened?

Tweek was curled up on the chair in the fetal position, head between his knees, shouting something—"OH JESUS OH JESUS WHAT"—with the doctor on her kneeling in front of him, trying to calm him down.

His mind didn't touch on why Tweek was doing it—he was built of instinct, paternal, maternal, you-use-it-you-buy-it responsibility. He grabbed Tweek by his head and pulled him partway into his own chair, shoving his face into his neck, trying to cover his mouth with it—he bit down, hard, either out of panic or rage, and Craig did all he could—hold the shouting boy tightly against his chest and rock him back and forth, dead silent.

Another nurse came in—jammed a syringe into Tweek's arm, pushed something into it, and pulled back out.

He felt the white hot mass gradually go limp, until, thirty seconds later, his head was lolled over Craig's shoulder, dead to the world.

--

Craig tapped the speaker end of the cell phone against the cartilage of his ear, gnawing his bottom lip fervently. The top layer of skin had been peeled away, showing shiny, sore red flesh beneath, though his teeth still dug in.

"Wha-at?" Kenny's voice drawled. The TV blared in the background.

"Kenny—you—wh—fuck, Kenny." He sputtered. How was he even supposed to approach this? Sympathetically? Accusatory?

This caught the other's attention; the TV was suddenly silenced. A distant lilting sound echoed it, Butters making some sort of inquiry.

"What?"

"Me…Me'n Tweek went to the hospital. For the—well, uh, pneumonia. Both of us—we have HIV."

Both worlds were silent, aside from the soft rasp of Tweek's sedated breathing on the check out table where he lay.

Butters made another noise—it trailed into the distance as Kenny moved away, followed by the sound of a slamming door. Another mewling sound, this time muffled.

Kenny breathed heavily, trying to gather himself, failing, starting to speak, failing, and trying again. "What the fuck do—did—who else have you fucked!?"

"You! Just you!"

"Oh God, oh God, oh God—no—"

"This is your fucking fault, isn't it?"

"I DIDN'T MAKE YOU—uh—it's as much my fault as it is yours! Oh, _God_, Butters!"

"Real fucking concerned over Butters now, aintcha? Wun thinkin' bout him when you started screwing nasty strangers?"

"It's not like that!" He was crying now—choking on it. "Look, I never—there—there was a couple things, at parties and bars and—I was never sober, I would never do anything like that sober, and my brother—he rapes me, Craig, he gets messed up and he—I can't control that, that's not my fault, but I would know if he had anything—Oh, God, Butters!"

"How 'bout Tweek? Huh?" Craig was unfazed by Kenny's confessions. He'd chosen his path, and sympathy was not it.

"Don't you blame me for cheating on him, you ass. It's your own fault you and him got—got it."

"And yours Butters probably did."

"_I'M NOT DENYING THAT! SHUT UP!_ Crap, crap—I have no idea who did this—Jesus, I have no idea how many people I infected—uhhr, fuck—I—I have to…I have to talk to Butters. He's freaking out." The open-sounding air coming through the speaker behind Kenny's voice was suddenly cut off. He pulled it away, and saw the message—call ended.

There was nothing to do. Tweek was sleeping, the doctors were out—busy, no doubt, as any doctor they saw would be for the next…well, from now on—and Kenny was dealing with his own spectrum of the issue.

He cried.

He felt for Butters—he did, about as much as he felt for himself, his naivety may have been annoying, but somehow that dopey, loving trustfulness was what had ensured his death in a hospital bed, hooked up to wires and with the blinds drawn. Poor kid never deserved this—he didn't deserve anything. He felt for himself, as well. 'Course he did.

But the frozen emptiness in his gut was for Tweek.

He sat in the chair—pulled his knees up, buried his face in them, cried like a snotty kid—for only about ten minutes before Tweek burst fully-formed from his artificial sleep.

Face screwed up in attempt to regain vision, he sleepily raised his head to stare at Craig. Craig lifted his face to meet his eyes.

"Did you cheat on me?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"…Once."

"So you gave me AIDS?"

"HIV."

"Who gave it to you?"

"Kenny."

"Oh. Are they okay?"

"Are you?"

"I'm…drugged."

"Well imagine how you are, only without the drugs. That's them."

Tweek considered this fact while rubbing his nose on the back of his sleeve. His half-lidded eyes rolled around the room, before he pushed himself all the way up, 'til his feet hung over the edge of the bed, toes dangling high above the cold linoleum. "I kinda…trusted you."

_Please don't do this._

"Like…pretty much only you. Wow. I guess this is what I get."

_You fucking dick._

"I was drunk. I felt really bad about it after."

"That doesn't really change the fact that I have AIDS, does it?"

"HIV. No, it doesn't—I…I can't really do anything about that."

"Can't really do anything about having cheated on me either."

Craig had a strong urge to slap him out of this sedative-coated calmness—beat the smart-ass off him, 'til he reached the core of jitters and jerked-out tentative half-statements. Then that melted away, leaving heavy, blank pity.

For the first time in their relationship, Tweek was the one to look on in awkward shock as Craig was the one to dissolve into useless sobs, hugging himself tightly.

--

**happy ending**

As soon as he got through the door, Tweek rushed toward the couch; he climbed over the armrest to land face-first on the cushion farthest from the door, spread out in the definition of misery.

Craig stood, taking off his jacket and pulling his shoes off with the opposite foot, watching. He was drained, and had no idea how he was supposed to react. It was a completely alien situation, of course.

"How mad are you?" Why the hell not.

Tweek moaned into the cushion, pulling his arms up from either side of his torso up to clutch the fabric by his face.

"Like, I should leave?"

The tussled blonde head shook from side to side; a surprising no.

"You hungry?"

Another no.

"Well, you have to take some of these meds—for the pneumonia—and, uh, if you're gonna sleep, you should probably take the other ones." Not the best time to play responsible—but if he didn't, they would most likely have been forgotten.

They were still for a few seconds before Tweek managed to lift the front half of his body from the couch, not turning to face the correspondent of his words as he inquired, "What did I do wrong?"

"For me to have cheated on you?"

Nod.

"…Nothing. Well…no, nothing. I—I told you, I was drunk, I wasn't thinking, I was horny—if you were there I would've done you, swear to God." Maybe not. "I really, really, REALLY screwed up. Like…if you want me to leave…"

"Errgh--I said no."

"Entirely."

This was the statement Tweek deemed deserving of showing his face—he whipped around, looking aggravated. "Why would you leave!? Augh—I can't deal with this by myself!"

Craig lifted one eyebrow incredulously.

"So…you…forgive me?"

"No!" He cried it hysterically, with an 'obviously' undertone.

"…But you're not leaving me?"

"What good would that do!? Augh—you screwed up, and you cheated on me and probably killed me—oh God—but that doesn't mean I want to be alone on top of all that!"

Craig squinted slightly, as if trying to see past Tweek's face and into his mind. After just a moment, however, he gave up, shrugged, and moved toward the couch, arms out to embrace his quivering love, and quickly received a foot to the face—shoe included.

"No! No hugs!"

"Right, sorry—killed you and all. In like, twenty years, though."

"Still counts."

"Wasn't saying it didn't—just—how long are you gonna be mad for?"

Tweek sighed as Craig rubbed his chin, kneading out the pain. "I'll let you know."

"Okay." He lingered for a little bit longer, before daring to add, "Y'know, kinda sucks that the entire gay population of our generation in this town has AIDS. Filling stereotypes, right?"

"Go to bed, Craig."

"On it."

---

It was another three days until Craig went back to work—the same shift as Kenny, the first time they would be seeing each other since discussing the incident. Lizzie, who worked as a nearly professional-level tension breaker, was unfortunately absent.

Kenny was bent over the desk, pushing a pen across a radial track. He pulled his finger away from the ball-point as Craig pushed open the door, ringing the bell, and gave him a completely neutral, yet wary, look.

:Okay, I've been thinking, and I have a shit-ton of wisdom to share with you."

"Wisdom?"

"Don't sass. Okay, number one—this is a challenge."

Craig leaned against the cold glass window that made up the front wall, waiting for Kenny to end his soliloquy before punching in and changing.

"And we will fight! Go Cows! Okay number two—we aren't trapped, like, mouse trap-trapped. It's like, we got picked up off the streets from an animal shelter and are now in a loving home. I know, it's just an analogy change, but pee-oh-vee counts for a lot. We're not rompin' around like the Tramp anymore, but hey, we got the Lady—and that movie ended happy, didn't it? I don't remember, I haven't seen it since I was little, I know they made a sequel, and if they made a sequel it has to have a happy ending—Bambi didn't have a sequel. Old Yeller didn't have a sequel. The Mighty Ducks had, like, ten. Anyway—that's number two. It's better to be trapped in a nice, safe place than free in a horrible, dangerous, HIV-filled one."

Craig's mouth titled to the side incredulously, but he sort of felt comradery with the blonde gesticulating broadly at the half-hexagon desk in front of him. And this time, he didn't have to try.

"Number three, I love Butters so much, I'm okay with not having it all. Hell, I'm okay having HIV! Well, no, not really—I'm kinda glad we both have it, rather than just one—well—no—this is weird, like, if it came between just him having it or both of us, I'd go with both of us. It's ours. You and Tweeker, you got yours—we got ours. He's not mad anymore. I told him everything. He is such a little cutie, I love him so much, I do. Yeah, okay, so it's fine that I don't get to do everyone ever. I get to do the most important person. There's number two of number three, I'm glad we both have it because we can still have crazy sex all night long. You heard me, all night long. Reason number three—I love Butters.

"And number four, we're all gonna die. Hell, I might die a few times before the AIDS gets me—which brings up the question, if I die again, will my HIV go away? I don't know, I haven't died in years, anyway, but there's always a chance—anyway—it's okay to die like this. Along with someone you love. One of us might be hit by a truck before we lose The Challenge, anyway! But if we don't me 'n' Butters get to go together. And that's nice." He crossed his arms, firmly nodded once, and smiled, proud of having enlightened his friend so thoroughly.

"So no more hot, hot, guilty sex?"

"Nope!"

"Well, now, I went and got AIDS for you, you dick, and now you shun me like I'm last—like—I suck."

"HIV. And you do suck, as shown by your inability to come up with a decent simile. Go change, faggot."

Craig sighed peacefully as he slipped to the back of the shallow store. Although a bit wordily, Kenny's wisdom seemed pretty on-the-ball. Yeah.

A Challenge.

Tweek hated challenges.

He laughed as he pulled on his vest. HIV and all, he was doing pretty okay.

AN: Oooh…I wouldn't submit this…but…I want reviews. Bad. So very, very little to do in my computer class…so very few unblocked websites…give me something to do, please. D: I know it sucks horribly. IDC. Tell me about your day. Give me a fun fact. ANYTHING. I have NOTHING to do in that class.—yahoo, wiki, and eBay. I spend all my money on eBay, and I gravitate toward pages that have to do with penises on wiki, which will someday get me in a lot of trouble, so yahoo's probably the safest bet here. BUT NOBODY'S REVIEWING ANYTHING. ARGH. TALK TO MEEE.


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